


Portraits

by morrezela



Series: The Fairy Tale 'Verse [2]
Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, Alternate Universe - Royalty, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-24
Updated: 2013-03-24
Packaged: 2017-12-06 07:09:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,040
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/732841
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/morrezela/pseuds/morrezela
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fairytale AU: Jensen is the king’s sorcerer who has been called upon to break a curse. This is the sequel to Staircases although it isn’t strictly necessary to read that one first.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Portraits

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: This is my fourth fill for my Hurt/Comfort Bingo Card. The square is ‘trapped between realities.’
> 
> All mistakes you find are my own.

The painting on the wall mocked Jensen. The king sat upon his throne, his arranged marriage bride, sitting primly in the chair beside him. The smile on the man’s face was genuine if a bit subdued. He wasn’t unhappy so much as he wasn’t ecstatic.

And why shouldn’t he be? The woman beside him had been a good friend since his early childhood. They had been betrothed since they were in their cradles and never had enmity risen between them. They were never quite sweethearts. Their relationship was as cordial and affectionate as it could be, but it wasn’t an instance of true love stemming out of childhood acquaintance.

Queen Marta was barren. They had tried for an heir for years before giving up on it. The court had whispered of long hidden illness that should have been told to the royal family before wedding oaths were taken. Advisors counseled the king to put away his wife and take another to bear him heirs, but he had denied them.

The king was a good and honest man. Loyal to a fault and strong in his conviction, King Harrison had never made himself a fool for anything, and he was beloved for it. He wasn’t like he was in Jensen’s world.

In Jensen’s world, the man was nigh on worshipped because he had made a fool of himself. It had happened once and only once, but that little bit of softness, of tenderness had made him a legend in the eyes of his people.

Prince Harrison, as he had been known at the time, had always been controlled and studious. He saw things as black and white. Either he should or he shouldn’t, and his warlords and tutors had loved him for it. He was not spoiled. Neither was he vain for all the beauty that hung upon his features. He was a humble man, but even for all his good attributes, an air of coldness and distance had hung about him.

Jensen, the student of history, could see that it was nothing more than the signs of a young man who had been raised and taught that his greatest purpose was to be both servant and symbol to his people. Love for one’s country was a great thing, to be sure, but there was no comfort in its phantom touch.

Jensen knew from experience on that one. There was many a night where he had rested in his bed longing for the comfort of touch and caring. As the king’s sorcerer, he was revered and admired by many. He was feared and hated by not a few. But there were none that would outright oppose him, and those who harbored true animosity or plotted skullduggery against him had long since been routed out of the closest circles of the king’s court.

Politics was not Jensen’s favorite weapon. That did not mean that he did not excel at it. He was his father’s son, even if nobody remembered that save him.

The portrait on the wall shimmered and shifted with the tide of Jensen’s memories, and for the briefest of moments, it was as it had been. Marta was gone, and King Harrison’s smile was smaller, but far more fond and genuine. His eyes cut ever so slightly to his left where his beloved wife sat in all her delicate beauty, and in his right hand, the small fist of the heir to the throne was held.

Jensen had been five when the portrait had been painted. He doesn’t remember his father looking so happy while it was being done. He remembered wanting to go outside and play and having that itchy feeling that all young boys feel when asked to stay still for too long.

In his adulthood, he supposed that his half-breed nature only contributed to the restlessness of his youth, but there wasn’t anybody around that he could ask about it. The boy in the picture didn’t exist to any of them, and the instant that Jensen took his magic away from it, the picture would revert to the cold reality that he had lived with for years.

Prince Harrison had been on a hunt the day that his heart was stolen from him. The day had been drizzling with rain and cold, but he was not a man to be bent by the weather. The people of the eastern reaches of his land had organized a hunt for their king for years, and he would be damned if he did not honor their sacrifice. They were not poor, for none of the regions in the land were allowed to lapse into such a state, but they were not the rich either. Their greatest bounty was in their forests and game, and Harrison had gone in his father’s stead that year.

The option had been given to him to stay and enjoy the feast once the heartier hunters who were used to the weather had returned with the day’s game, but he had denied the offer. He would suffer with his people for that was what a future king should do.

His party had been hours into the hunt without catching sight of anything more than a squirrel or songbird when he had caught sight of deer tracks. He had pursued the trail, he and his men drawing bow and keeping quiet as the tracks became fresher.

When he happened upon his quarry, there was no swaggering buck for his rewards. There wasn’t even a meaty doe, although Jensen’s mother would insist otherwise as she aged. Gentle and graceful were always the words used to describe Queen Jenhaia, but she had suffered from worrying about her weight as much as any human woman ever did.

She was a veldeer, a forest dweller whose form was both that of a deer and a human depending on her mood. Her animal coat was like unto a pearl, dotted with silvery spots. Her human form was lithe and pale; silvery white hair spilled like waves of frost over her slim shoulders and elegant neck. No man could look upon her and see anything other than a beautiful creature. In ages past she would have been hunted for her deer form’s hide. Her coat would have been sought after for the robes of the rulers, but Prince Harrison had only wanted her heart.

It had been a scandal when he had eloped with the mystical creature instead of following through with his betrothal. Some had whispered that he had been bewitched, but Jensen’s mother had won over the humans with her love and goodness.

The land had flourished and though her family had been loath to give her up, Jenhaia had come to be first princess then queen of Jensen’s father’s land.

Jensen had been born in the winter. The harsh January winds had been foreign to his mother. The peoples of the great forests bore their young in springtime like the beasts that they tended, so to be with child when no fruit was in season vexed her greatly. She had travailed long with his birth and had fretted ceaselessly about his health while she waited for spring to arrive.

Harrison had told Jensen tails of how his mother would scarcely let him away from her bosom for fear her little fawn would freeze to death without the protection of his mother’s body. She wouldn’t let his nurse care for him until the world outside the castle thawed to spring. Harrison had been glad that spring had come early and was mild because around about that time Jensen had first shifted form and had given his mother yet another reason to worry.

When Jensen had been born, his eyes had not been the color of a human newborn’s. No milky blue had ever sought to hide what shade they might turn. They had been green the first time that he had opened them, and green they stayed. It was his mother’s legacy to him, and the only feature that he still kept despite the way that the world had tried to take his heritage from him.

His mother’s people said that the eyes of their children bespoke of their power, and green was the most enviable of all. Green meant life, sustenance, health. Where humans might seek the icy blue of wind or the rushing brown of the earth or even the molten red of fire, green was what the veldeer knew was the power that should be truly sought. Without life, power and strength were nothing.

Jenhaia had been proud that her little fawn had been so gifted, and Jensen’s father swore it was only her belief in this giftedness that had kept her from fainting when her perfect little fawn shifted to a coat of white that was speckled over with horrifying brown dots. Harrison, as he told it, had tried to reassure her that it was only Jensen’s humanity making a bid for space, but she had been certain that her little baby was ill.

Of course, when Jensen had become old enough to hear the story, such worries of a new mother were laughable, but his mother still swore that he had given her gray hairs. He could never refute her claims, nobody could. To go searching for a gray hair amongst her white and silver would have been a trial not worth facing.

And so Jensen, the prince, had lived a privileged life. Adored by his parents and his people, he had been kind hearted if a bit shy – a mix of his father’s reticence and his mother’s deer nature.

Queen Jenhaia had taken to human fashions with the passion of any woman who suddenly found herself surrounded by fabrics of untold colors and artisans begging to drape her body in the most flattering ways. She had given herself a mission to do business with every weaver in the kingdom lest any feel slighted, or at least that was her excuse for traveling hither and thither across her husband’s kingdom in search of new and exciting finery.

When she felt her own closets to be excessive, she had taken to filling Jensen’s. As he was prone to growth spurts, she felt no guilt in constantly searching out new clothing for him as a prince must have a healthy wardrobe.

It was on one of those shopping trips that Jensen had first met Jared.

Jensen could still remember the shop. It was truly unusual with its awkwardly placed staircase. But the family looked like they couldn’t afford much better, and the owner had done his best to work the eyesore into his shop instead of making an attempt to hide it.

While they were not sumptuous, the fabrics that Jared’s father sold were very durable. Queen Jenhaia had been on the hunt for something that Jensen wouldn’t put a hole into within minutes of playing in the forest, so she had taken him to one of the smaller villages that was less populated and far less visited than others. Her reasoning had been that those with less tended to make things that would last, and she had been pleased to see the variety of colors offered in Jared’s father’s shop.

As his mother flitted about the store, placing orders and being doted upon, Jensen had hidden behind the bolts of thick canvas that men would make sturdy tarps out of and watched as silently as was possible.

Jared had still found him.

Jared had been short then, though his eyes were still tilted like those of a fox, and his personality was still earnest. He had called Jensen pretty, and swore that one day he would move to the castle if only to have the chance to lay eyes on the prince every day for the rest of his life.

In retrospect, Jensen was rather grateful that Jared had been all of six at the time and that the compliments were made in childish sincerity. If the words had come from an adult, they would have been creepy. Instead, Jared had endeared himself to the old and wise Jensen who at the age of ten was so much more respectable.

Queen Jenhaia had become quite fond of Jared’s father’s shop, and Jensen had, to his etiquette instructor’s horror, become quite fond of travelling with her there. It was, apparently, unseemly to seek out the companionship of one so much younger and so much lower a class when Jensen was a prince gifted from the heavens with power. It was also, as far as Jensen’s father was concerned, very wrong of him to go there specifically to earn compliments from Jared.

And really, that hadn’t been the only reason that Jensen had gone. It was nice to have flattery directed at him that was merely honest. When Jared spoke of Jensen’s prettiness, he wasn’t aiming to do anything other than speak the truth. If he wasn’t, he would certainly have used words such as ‘handsome’ or ‘striking’ like the courtiers did when trying to ingratiate themselves to the young prince.

In thankfulness for Jared’s openness, Jensen would bring sweet treats and fruits from the kitchens of the palace to give the smaller boy. They were never anything extravagant. Jared, even though he was young, had been taught his ‘place’ in society, and Jensen had more than enough lecturers to teach him the appropriate behavior for every situation.

Still, he grew affection for Jared just as Jared’s regard of him also seemed to grow.

The last time that he laid eyes on Jared, the boy had just turned twelve. Puberty had been making its way onto his features, and his elfin charm had been replaced with awkward limbs and a cracking voice that Jensen was hard pressed to not find amusing.

He had done his best to hide his laughter because Jared had done the same for him when the young prince had become even quieter as his dulcet tones had inexplicably done their best to imitate the rough growl of a sea trader’s voice. It had been embarrassing. His mother had expelled no less than five voice coaches from the castle when they had each attempted to coach Jensen into speaking with a whisper to hide how deep his the tone of voice was shifting.

They had claimed that it would be bad for his ‘image’ should he speak in such a way. Though his father’s voice rumbled in authority, the people apparently expected their fawn prince to take after his mother, and his maturing vocal chords did not fit that expectation.

In the present, nobody expected anything of Jensen except, perhaps, for him to turn them into a frog.

He wouldn’t lie and say that there were not days that he enjoyed that fact, but those days were hardly fair compensation for loosing everybody he had ever loved.

Despite searching for answers for years, Jensen had never found out exactly who it was that was behind the attack. He did not know how their plotting made it past his father’s guardians. They may have been bribed, or they may have simply been in disbelief that anybody would wish such harm upon the queen and prince.

Whatever the reason, the attackers succeeded with their plans.

Jensen can still remember the way that the skies had turned to a mix of ash and fire. He had been in his bedroom, putting away a simple woodcarving that Jared had given him, when he looked out of his window. The fire had been blue and pink in color as if seeing flames living on the wind alone wasn’t enough to announce the unnatural state of its existence.

He had screamed for his mother, his tutor, his guard. He had yelled for anyone, though in his panicked mind, he hadn’t the foggiest clue what he was actually trying to achieve with his screamings. Either he sought aide or sought to give it, but by the time that he had made it to the great staircase, the world had already started to warp around him.

Galroth, the King’s sorcerer, had met Jensen halfway down the steps. The man was aged, older than Jensen’s grandfather would have been if the man had yet lived, and his face was drawn and pale. He had asked Jensen’s forgiveness, and for a moment, Jensen had thought that the terror happening to them had been one of the old wizard’s machinations.

Jensen had been wrong about that. Terribly, horribly wrong. He understood that when he saw his own mother twist apart in the winds, ripped into a thousand bloodless pieces as time itself unwound about her. Galroth’s hands had grabbed hold of Jensen as the younger man had tried to save his mother, and he had whispered, “I could only save one of you. My power is too weak.”

The storm lasted only half an hour, but when it was done, there was none save Galroth who knew Jensen’s face. His own father smiled at him as he would any of his subjects, and the woman who sat on the throne next to him was not Jensen’s mother.

Galroth had introduced Jensen as his son, the result of an indiscretion with a scullery maid during the coronation party some years before. The mother, Galroth had explained, had kept the child secret, but willed the headstrong youth to him as she died from the horrible affliction of rat poisoning. “Poor girl couldn’t read,” he’d said. It wasn’t until years later that Jensen got past enough of his grief to be angry with the old wizard for giving him such a horrifying backstory.

Galroth had lived in the mountains. Jensen, when he was the prince, had never quite comprehended the fear that the people had for such a powerful mage until he’d suffered from the same suspicious looks and loathing that Galroth did. He’d never experienced people literally quaking at the sight of his shadow. They had feared Prince Jensen and his royal power, but they were absolutely terrified of what Jensen the sorcerer’s son might do to them with a tiny wiggle of his nose.

He trained with Galroth in his cabin in the woods. His mother’s blood in his veins made him more powerful than his trainer but bent his magic in different ways. The earth still pulled to Jensen’s blood even though whatever evil that had come upon him kept him from shifting into his other rightful form. Tiny spots dotted across his human skin, a mockery of his deer markings, and the only reminder he had that he wasn’t just a magically gifted human who was having hallucinations about what his green eyes really meant.

Jensen had needed that reminder more and more often since Galroth had died and left Jensen as the only one who remembered Prince Jensen. He was the only one who stood upon the grand staircase in the castle and remembered a time when the drapes were made of blues and greens instead of eye jarring reds and obscenely deep purples that spoke of nothing other than a desire to show how rich powerful the monarchy was to afford such extravagant dye jobs.

And he was the only one who remembered a time when Jared’s eyes would tilt with pleasure upon seeing him. He was the one who recalled their friendship and how Jensen would slip Jared sweets when others weren’t looking.

It wouldn’t matter now, of course. Jensen was certain of Jared’s ability to con treats from the confectioner without royal intervention, but he knew that Jared would enjoy them more had they been stolen for him.

The painting wavered a few more times before Jensen let it flip back to its normal, austere presentation.

As much as he wished to have his life back, he had grown accustomed to the truth that he would never win that battle. He and Galroth had spent years searching for what curse could even have that sort of power, but they had never found the answer.

Alone, Jensen made a good sorcerer, but he hadn’t the ability or the resource to undo magic so powerful. His sway could only be held over an object, and that influence would only last for a few seconds.

Behind him, the door to King Harrison’s chambers swung open.

“His highness will see you now,” the guardsman announced.

Jensen gave him a wan smile and a nod of thanks as he walked by the man. In another life, the very same guard had been the one to teach Jensen how to fight with a pike, but now Jensen was just another figure to respect and eye warily for any sign of threat to the king.

It still took some effort to not address the king as, ‘father,’ but Jensen managed to strangle the impulse down by the time he rose out of his perfunctory bow. “My lord,” he spoke softly, not making direct eye contact and avoiding so much as a glimpse of the woman beside his father.

Marta was a fine woman, but she was not Jensen’s mother. It was not her fault, but he could not forgive her for it.

“Jensen,” the warmth in Harrison’s voice made Jensen ache for the paternal affection that had always resided there before, but he forced a smile onto his lips even as tears tried to make their way to his eyes.

“You summoned me,” Jensen said with another half bow.

“And you came faster than a raven. I half worry that you’ll break that horse’s neck one of these days,” the king chuckled.

“I aspire to be swift,” Jensen agreed, “like a deer,” he added because some part of him just couldn’t leave his pain alone. He still couldn’t let his hope die that one day his own father would recognize him or at least have a look of lingering confusion as memories tried to push their way in.

Harrison laughed and his queen cleared her throat pointedly. “Jensen,” she said, and he had no choice but to look at her. He would not disrespect the crown even when it was sitting on the wrong head.

“Yes, my lady?” he choked out.

“I have reason to believe, that is…” Marta shifted uncomfortably, and despite his dislike of the situation, Jensen could feel pity for the worry and stress that he saw on her face.

“We have reason to believe that my wife has been cursed,” the king finished for her.

“How so?” Jensen asked immediately. The sooner that he learned his assignment, the faster he could be gone from his home and go back to the solitude of his mountain where he could put away his mantle of contentment and wrap himself back up in his mourning.

“These many years, Marta has been barren. When we traveled to the wells of Therspian not a month ago, they turned purple when she touched them.”

Jensen drew in a breath. “You believe her cursed to be childless.”

“It shames me to not have thought of it sooner, but yes.”

“And you wish me to find the source of this curse?” Jensen asked.

“I care not who or why,” Queen Marta told him. “I only want it gone.”

“Marta…” the king tried to interrupt.

“No, Harrison,” she addressed him with familiarity that made Jensen’s ears burn, “I have my choice in the matter. If Jensen is expending his energy searching for the cause, then we have no other I can trust with looking for a cure.”

“They may be one in the same!” Harrison roared, his voice deepening as Jensen knew his own did when chanting.

“Then he will stumble upon both,” Marta reasoned, “but we have so very little time left. Every turn may be my last. Every month brings us closer to never having a child.”

Jensen felt bile rise in his stomach. His mind supplied him with the words that would teleport him from the room, and it was only the knowledge that he’d make it about as far as the luncheon room that kept him from literally wishing himself away.

“Might I suggest that I start immediately then?” he rasped out and prayed that his insincerity did not show in his voice.

His father looked angered, but he nodded, and Jensen took his leave. He controlled his footsteps as he left his father’s chambers, but once he was past the guards, he ran. Tears dripped down his cheeks as he moved, and he summoned a cloak of invisibility to shield himself from prying eyes. It was a selfish use of power, but there was no need to show his people his lack of strength even if they no longer knew him to be their prince.

When he reached the orchard, he curled up under an apple tree and tried not to think of anything at all. He made himself think of summer days and wine and chocolates – anything other than the fact that his father had just asked him to give away his rightful spot.

His one comfort in the untrue world that he had been forced to live in was that he had never been replaced. Even though his father did not know him, Jensen had at least never had to see his father’s affection be given to another child. He’d never had to stand by and watch as a half sibling that he would never know received the love that Jensen once had owned.

“You’re much too pretty to cry,” Jared’s voice was soft as he crouched down beside Jensen.

“You lie,” Jensen rebuffed as he wiped away the telltale tears and tried to recall just exactly when it was that he’d let his shielding drop. “I am a very pretty crier. I had classes on it as a child.”

“Really?” Jared both looked and sounded disbelieving.

“How do you think that scullery maids afford bastard children?” Jensen responded. Mentions of his supposed mother usually made people keep their tongues in their mouth while they were in front of him even if they wagged like a dog’s tail once he was gone.

The corners of Jared’s mouth turned down, but he didn’t leave. “It is none of my business. I know, but I cannot help but notice that you are not as you were when you arrived this morning.”

“The curse is different.”

“Different from what?” Jared asked.

“From what I thought it to be,” Jensen snapped back, his tears returning. It had been stupid of him to hope that the curse his father had summoned him about was the one that had taken his life away from him. That he would regain the love of his father and see his mother again, and that his world would be restored to him and that Jared might look upon him again with recognition. That they would share candies and poke fun at the world around them as friends.

It was a stupid fantasy, and Jensen was far too old to indulge in it. Even if Jared knew him, they were of two different worlds before the curse happened. Age would have taken Jared from him anyway.

“Here,” Jared said as he thrust his hand out at Jensen. A red hard candy rested in his giant palm.

“Pincherry drops,” Jensen mumbled in recognition as his fingers reached out to snatch the treat away. His father had commissioned his entire kitchen staff to find ways to preserve the fruits of summer for his lovely bride, and the hard candy had been one of the results of that.

Queen Jenhaia had liked them well enough, but they had always been Jensen’s favorite since he had grown old enough to have sweets. The only person he would ever share his stash with was Jared, but that was because Jared’s mother made the most perfect caramels in her beat up, cast iron pot, and Jared had always been known to trade.

“Cook always makes me extra,” Jared said with a shrug that Jensen knew to be a lie. Cook hated making the candies with a passion. He always said that was what the confectioners were for, but according to him they never made them right.

It was a vague leftover from the world as it should be. In the real world, Cook had insisted on making them because they were for the queen and the heir, and he trusted nobody else to make certain that the flavor wasn’t boiled straight out of them as the sugar reached the appropriate temperature to harden.

But vague was all it was, and Jensen had long since given up any faith in the idea that such an insignificant thing would bring about remembrances.

“It wasn’t supposed to make you cry again,” Jared muttered.

“I’m not crying,” Jensen denied in a tiny voice.

“And to think that people fear you,” Jared said as he sat down beside Jensen.

Jensen glared at him and made the air crackle with tiny bolts of lightning.

Jared, as distractible as ever, just looked delighted at the display of power. “That is amazing.”

“Don’t you have work to do?” Jensen asked as he sullenly slipped the candy into his mouth.

Jared didn’t reply, and when Jensen sneaked a glance at him, Jared’s eyes were focused on his lips for some unfathomable reason.

“Jared?” he prompted.

“Yes! I mean, uh, what?” Jared answered, his face flushing dully.

“Work?” the word came out distorted as Jensen rolled the candy around in his mouth.

“Done for the day,” Jared replied with a gesture to a pile of sticks. “Cook wanted fruit wood kindling for his jerky.”

Jensen stuck his tongue out with the candy sitting right on the tip and arched an inquiring eyebrow. He knew full well that such a task was not one assigned to Jared by Sherman the head craftsman, but one that Jared had gotten because of his desire for sweets.

Jared ignored him and plucked the candy off Jensen’s tongue with his mouth.

“Jared! That is disgusting!” Jensen scolded as soon as he pulled his poor tongue back in his mouth for safety.

Jared grinned back at him, and even though Jensen’s world was still a horrible place, he smiled back.


End file.
